Positive
by Dana Holmes
Summary: Harry tells Voldemort he's pregnant.  An attempt to look at their reactions more realistically.


Title: Positive  
><span>Author:<span> Dragon_of_Venus  
><span>Pairings:<span> Lord Voldemort/Harry Potter  
><span>Rating:<span> PG-13  
><span>Word Count:<span> 4,263  
><span>Master List:<span> My one-shot Master-List is here.  
><span>Summary:<span> Harry tells Voldemort he's pregnant. (An attempt to look at their reactions more realistically.)  
><span>Warnings:<span> Passing references to torture, mentions of character death, ableist language, angst, Voldemort-wins AU, abortion, significant age differences.  
><span>Contains:<span> Mpreg, mentions of bondage, mentions of sadomasochism, bisexuality.  
><span>Disclaimer:<span> J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter and all related characters, settings, and other copy-righted entities. I do not, nor do I make any profit from this piece of writing.  
><span>Author's Notes:<span> Yes, I wrote Voldy/Harry Mpreg. ;.; Because seriously, who needs a reputation? Do _not_ take this seriously! It was actually initially supposed to be a crackfic when I sat down to write it, but it ended up going in a more serious direction than that. Oh well.

It had been three hours. Three _long_ hours of sitting in the Dark Lord's bedroom chewing his lip. He didn't know where Voldemort had _been_ all this time, but he hoped he wasn't gone for the night. There was no telling how long this bout of courage would last.

This was bad.

This was very bad.

When he heard the knob turn, he felt his heart drop and he considered a mad dash for the window. His courage had just gone it, so he might as well follow.

He forced himself to take a deep breath, and the thin figure near the door heard and paused for half of a second before turning on the light.

Lord Voldemort turned and smirked. "Harry," he said simply, closing the door and advancing on the young man on his bed. "My darling little horcrux," he purred, "back for more punishment?"

And what punishment! Harry's arms bound to the headboard, his legs kicking as he arched off the bed, his scar _screaming_, his arse _always_ completely unprepared... The pain was blinding, always, which was just as well because Voldemort was not the most attractive Dark Lord in the business. (Witch Weekly had done a ranking of them a year and a half ago, and Emeric the Evil had come in first, with Gellert Grindelwald in his early days taking second. Poor Grindelwald was always second. Voldemort hadn't been well enough known in his attractive days to even best Uric the Oddball.) It was the pain that brought Harry back to Voldemort's bed again and again and again: The pain and the fear and some other odd emotion that Harry didn't really like to name...

It had started a few months before Voldemort taken control of the Ministry. Had been captured and brought before Voldemort and, to Harry's great surprise, _not_ killed. Voldemort had explained to Harry that he was something called a "horcrux," which Hermione had later explained meant that Voldemort couldn't be killed as long as Harry was alive, and that Harry would be under Voldemort's protection and supervision from then on. He'd been allowed to return to the Burrow on the condition that he visited Voldemort once a month. Initially, Voldemort had thoroughly checked Harry over every month, both magically and physically, to make sure that Harry was _absolutely_ not dying, but these days he mostly just took Harry's word for it and instead used their time alone to rut Harry mercilessly. Voldemort enjoyed it because it was the best way he'd ever found to torture Harry, and Harry enjoyed it because it was the best way he'd ever been tortured.

"No," Harry said. He'd wanted to sound firm, but he felt so weak and helpless right now that it had come out soft and yielding, more like he was making a bad attempt to play hard to get than anything else.

Voldemort paused no less. "... Really?" He brushed his fingers through Harry's hair and then brought his hand down to cup Harry's cheek. Harry felt like his head was about to split open from his scar.

"Really," he said. He pulled his head away from Voldemort's hand, and kept it where it landed, staring over his shoulder at the brown bedspread. "Listen to me."

Harry felt the weight on the mattress shift as Voldemort sat down in front of him. "Alright," he said softly.

Harry took a deep breath, still training his eyes on the blanket.

"Can you look at me and say it like a big boy?"

"_Shut up_." Harry glared at him. "I'm pregnant. How's that for a big boy?"

Voldemort had reached for his wand when Harry told him to shut up, but now he froze. The tip of his wand was lingering just a few inches away from Harry's left eye. Voldemort lowered it onto the bed. His face was blank. "How sure are you?" he asked.

"I'm positive," Harry said. Then he laughed slightly. "_Five times_, I was positive."

"Five times out of... fifty...?" Voldemort offered hopefully.

"Get rid of a zero."

"I see. And how did you test it?"

Harry looked down at the bed again. "Well, I woke up a few weeks ago with this weird... feeling... and I just kind of knew. But I didn't think I really was, so I slipped off into the village and got muggle tests..." He heard a small gasp from Voldemort, and decided not to wonder what it meant. "... just to prove that I wasn't. And that came up positive, so I tried the other, because I'd bought two just in case... I don't know... and the second one was positive too. But I decided that I didn't trust muggle tests, so I sort of got Mrs. Weasley to tell me what she used to used—"

"_Someone knows_?"

"No!" Harry said quickly, flinching back from the harsh voice. "She thought I was asking for Hermione. That test came up positive on me, but then Mrs. Weasley started bothering Hermione about it, so Hermione cast a spell on herself. She'd known another one, so I just sort of paid attention and tried it on myself later. Negative for her. Positive for me."

Harry paused and glanced up at Voldemort. The dark red eyes were obviously not happy, but they didn't look like Voldemort was about to murder Harry on the spot, either.

"That was only four, Harry."

Harry flinched again. Voldemort sounded, and Harry blushed at how childish it made him feel to think it, _mean_. He _was_ usually mean, of course, even with his cock buried in Harry's arse, but it was usually a more playful sort of meanness. This was obvious frustration and regret. Harry didn't like it.

"I know! I was just trying to see how you were taking it!"

"I'm taking it just fine." Voldemort's tone of voice disagreed with him. "Do go on."

Harry took a deep breath and looked away again, this time averting his eyes to a space on the wall over Voldemort's shoulder. "I still didn't want to believe it, so then I went through all of my old potions textbooks and found one that we hadn't gone over in class that was supposed to tell you—"

"A Draught of Revelation?"

"Yes. That was it. The special type for pregnancy. And... well..."

"It wasn't negative," Voldemort finished. "How sure are you that it's mine?"

"Positive. It's been over a year since I've been with anyone else, and longer since I've been with any other _man_." Harry blushed, but forced himself to look at Voldemort. "We're having a girl, if you care. I was thinking that maybe we could call her Jessica."

Voldemort's face was still blank. "Jessica is an awful muggle name," Voldemort said, his voice just as harsh as before, but no harsher. The comment didn't really hurt Harry. Voldemort stood up and grabbed Harry's collar, tugging him toward the door. Harry was a great deal physically stronger than Voldemort and could have pulled away if he'd wanted to, but he hadn't really seen the point. "I was thinking something more along the lines of 'that abortion you had.'"

_That_ made Harry stop. Voldemort looked at him darkly, but Harry didn't shrink back. "I'm not sure I want that..." Really, Harry hadn't even _thought_ about it before now. His initial reaction to the idea was unease, but his reaction to the idea of _giving birth_ was unease, and at this point it was a bit more than 'initial.'

On the other hand, _a child_. Sure, she was Voldemort's, but maybe _she_ would be good. Maybe she would take after Harry. Maybe even Voldemort would be different if someone had just _loved_ him enough. Harry would love her more than enough, if he had her. Maybe Harry could keep her and love her, and even after he'd lost Cho and the Weasleys and Hermione and _everyone_, which he surely would someday soon, he would still have his daughter, and they would still love each other. They'd be a very little and very broken family, but they could be a _family_. The only one Harry had ever really had.

Harry had to admit, _that_ idea was very, very appealing, even if the idea of giving birth wasn't.

"Really?" Voldemort scoffed. "_You_ want to have a child? You want to have _my_ child? Daddy's precious little heir of Slytherin?"

Harry hadn't thought of that. Of course, Voldemort had already expelled all of the muggleborns, so Harry didn't suppose their daughter could do much _harm_ if he sent her to Hogwarts...

It was an upsetting thought anyway.

"Male pregnancy is a very painful process, Harry," Voldemort said softly, in the tone of voice that he used to speak to Harry in when Voldemort had first returned to power. It was a _mockingly_ gentle voice, and undoubtedly the voice that he had spoken to first years in when he was Head Boy, or to very young children at the orphanage in when he was a teen. It the voice he spoke to _Crabbe and Goyle_ in these days. Harry hated it. "It might not seem so bad now. You're not even showing now. It'll get worse. How much do you know about male pregnancy, Harry?"

Harry shrugged. "A sixth-year boy gave birth in the Hospital Wing while I was in there my second year. I talked to him a bit. That's how I found out it was even possible..." It had almost put Harry off blokes for life. Harry wished it _had_.

"And did he mention how painful it was?"

"I could guess..." Harry could still clearly remember the boy's screams. "Couldn't they drug me or something?"

"Oh no. That would be much too dangerous. Don't you think your sixth-year friend would have wanted something if he could have it?" He sighed and shook his head, leaning against the wall and looking at Harry with sad eyes. "It'll be nine _hard_ months for you, I'm afraid. Ending with one _awful_ day. And what will your reward be? _Another_ little chunk of me to look after. I must admit, I'd like to see if you could find some good in my blood. No one else in history has been able to, certainly..."

It was certainly _not_ Harry's idea of fun. But the 'little chunk of Voldemort' would be a little chunk of Harry too, and wouldn't that mean _something_?

"And the worst part, Harry, is that I won't ever admit it. My followers will take my side. She could be a parselmouth because of you, and aside from that, you won't have any proof even if she looks just like me."

"How very like your father, _Tom_," Harry said bitterly.

Voldemort froze. "And if you ever say that again," Voldemort said, laying a gentle but very painful hand on Harry's cheek and glaring Unforgivable at him, "you're going to be not much unlike yours."

Harry jumped back, and Voldemort allowed him to. It was an empty threat, of course, but it was still the first time in years that Voldemort had even _threatened_ him like that.

"And you know my name," Voldemort said sternly.

Harry knew better. There were some things that you just did not say to Lord Voldemort.

"Now," Voldemort said calmly, "where was I? Perhaps your friends will believe you, but would you want them to? Do you really want to explain to them that once a month for _all year_ you've been fucking the man who made them prisoners in their own homes," this was a reference to the Weasleys, "who killed their parents and absolved their torturers," this to Neville, "who completely and utterly _destroyed their lives_," this to Hermione, who had been expelled from school, didn't even know if her parents were alive, and had been legally prohibited from working in the wizarding United Kingdom, "and so much more?"

Of course Harry wouldn't want them to know. Harry _himself_didn't want to know. Just hearing all of that made _his own_ skin crawl. Why the Hell had he done this? For the pain? A cheap hooker could have hurt him, and _she_ would probably have actually been a decent person.

Harry didn't necessarily want a life-long reminder of this whole horrible affair.

"And poor Molly Weasley doesn't really need another mouth to feed, does she?"

She certainly didn't. Harry had agreed to stop the war on the condition that his friends would not be hurt. Voldemort had, after some debating, brought this condition down to 'no one staying at Harry Potter's current place of residence shall be hurt.' Harry's place of residence was, of course, the Burrow. In the end, Voldemort probably should have taken Harry's version of the deal. When Voldemort began cracking down on muggle-borns, within a week there had been three hundred people technically 'staying' at the Burrow. Many of them were complete strangers to both Harry and the Weasleys, but they hadn't had it in them to turn anyone away. Most were just there long enough for the Order to arrange for them to start new lives in another country. Someone had been sleeping on every inch of the floor, and every bed in the house had been transformed with magic into a triple-bunk-bed. Many people had initially pitched tents in the Burrow's garden, after Harry had confirmed with Voldemort that that still counted as Harry's place of residence, but after the first hundred or so showed up it had become clear that there wasn't even space for _that_, and everyone had ended up in a magically heated sleeping-bag, on the cold ground in late November. Harry had felt like the world's biggest prick just for _having_ a bed, even though he and everyone else in the house had ended up surrendering their beds to the children. Harry could still recall spending one particularly frigid night outside, shoulder-to-shoulder with Collin Creevey, having to yell their conversation because they'd both completely zipped themselves in their sleeping bags to stay warm.

Mrs. Weasley hadn't been able to feed all of those people, of course, but she'd certainly done what she could for the children, eventually coming to a point where even _her own_children weren't allowed to eat until everyone under the age of ten was fed. Harry and the remaining Weasley children (Apparently Bill and Charlie were both saying that you couldn't _pay_ them to go home these days, and when Bill had mentioned in a letter that there was an opening at his branch of Gringots in Egypt, Percy had jumped at it.) had gone out to eat for almost every meal, almost every day for a month. They had to bring things back for Hermione and their other muggle-born friends, because Voldemort had made it clear that any muggle-born _not_ at the Burrow for any reason could be arrested. Harry had gone through more galleons in that month than in the rest of his time in the wizarding world added up, but he'd hardly been able to regret it. So many people had fled on a moment's notice, and what little money they had was either used up very quickly or, Mrs. Weasley insisted, best saved for when they started from scratch in a foreign land.

That was what it had come to for all of them. Hermione had sent her parents to Australia, because even though muggles were "safe" she was worried about them, but Voldemort had made it impossible for them to write to her. The Creeveys were in Canada. It was also impossible to write to them. Dean had been sent to Canada, and Seamus and his parents had followed him (his mother was taking no chances with Voldemort's stance on blood-traitors). Hundreds of other families had been sent to the United States, New Zealand, South Africa, or even countries where the refugees didn't speak the language, if that was the only country the Order could get to take them. It wasn't possible to contact any of them. Harry had even warned his own relatives that it might be wise to move, and for once his uncle had been sensible. Uncle Vernon had found a new job in Austin, and Dudley had transferred to a university not far away. That was the last Harry had ever heard from them, but it was also the last time Harry had cared to.

People who hadn't _needed_ to flee had fled, too. After the death of Neville's parents, Neville and his grandmother had signed up for a cruise around the Mediterranean "to help them recover from the loss" and vanished while the boat was docked in Athens. Cho had dropped into the Burrow one day in December, under the guise of wanting to visit Harry, and had delivered a large donation to the Order from her father and informed Harry that her family had gotten permission to spend New Years with her grandparents in China. She'd said it _strangely_, though, and Harry hadn't understood what she meant right away. It wasn't until she said the words "if _something_ happens and we never see each other again..." that it had really dawned on Harry that she wasn't planning to _leave_ China. That night, Harry'd had his last sexual encounter with someone who wasn't the Dark Lord. He hadn't heard from Cho in the year-and-a-half since, and wasn't about to try. Although it was perfectly _legal_ to write to witches and wizards of "acceptable" blood-statuses living in other countries, Harry wasn't keen on the idea of drawing Ministry attention to Cho's ongoing absence.

Percy was operating under a similar philosophy, choosing to include messages in Bill's letters rather than write his own. Although the Ministry had let him go, at least for now, Percy didn't "particularly want to _rub it in_, if you know what I mean." He'd been allowed out of the country to begin with only by insisting that he was merely going to visit his brother for a week. Since then it had been almost impossible for any Weasley to get out of the country, and harder still now that the Ministry had started monitoring their floo use and apparation constantly. It was proving a nightmare to get Ron's cousins to get safely out, and they weren't rushing things because they knew they only had one chance at it.

At some point, there had been an unspoken consensus among everyone that they all needed to leave, to different countries, as soon as possible, in a mass breakout that they_prayed_ the Death Eaters would overlook, as long as Harry remained in England. Hermione had been talking about following her parents to Australia since they'd left, and Ron would almost certainly follow Hermione. Fred and George, who were hoping to open a joke shop one day, had read excellent things about running businesses in Canada. Ron's cousins both seemed to have their hearts set on New Zealand (apparently one of the wives had a sister there who would help them get settled) and Harry had overheard Mr. and Mrs. Weasley talking at night about sending Ginny to live with Charlie in Romania and seeing what they could do with themselves in the United States, perhaps in Detroit, where they'd be able to see the twins often.

There were a lot fewer people at the Burrow now. Most of the muggle-borns in the country were either gone or caught. It was currently only Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Fred and George, Ron, Ginny, Hermione, Harry, and two of Ron's cousins and their muggle-born wives, and five children between them. They were, at least, all getting fed at home now, but they certainly didn't need another child added in. That was the main reason why Mrs. Weasley had been so concerned about the possibility of Hermione being pregnant. (That, and of course the reality that it was virtually impossible for Hermione to receive any pre- or post-natal care without fleeing the country.) Harry had no doubt that, if he refused to get an abortion, Voldemort would see to it that he received excellent maternity care—he _was_ Voldemort's precious little horcrux, after all. Voldemort would've seen to it that Harry got the best care available even if he _weren't_ the father—but medi-witches and midwives could only do so much, and the last thing Harry wanted was to burden the Weasleys more than he already had.

Harry turned away from Voldemort and rested his head on the wall. He took several deep breaths. He didn't know what he'd expected Voldemort to say—he certainly hadn't expected the man to jump for joy and pop the question—but he'd expected something at least better than _this_. Harry had never really wanted Voldemort to have anything to do with their daughter anyway. Harry had enough money of his own, and he didn't want Voldemort influencing the girl. Harry supposed that what he'd really wanted was a simple "That's fine." He'd needed to hear that from _someone_, and Voldemort was the only person he'd felt brave enough to tell. He hadn't wanted—he still _didn't want_—to tell anyone else how this had happened, and he figured that, if nothing else, Voldemort would be _rational_ about this. Harry had been sure that Voldemort would be able to look at this situation unemotionally, precisely _because_ he would feel no emotional attachment to Harry or the child, and come to the conclusion that there was nothing about the situation worth fretting over. Instead, he'd come to the opposite conclusion.

"Thing is..." Harry said with a sigh, "I _want_ kids. I've always wanted kids."

"Then do this _for_ the ones that you _want_."

"Maybe she _is_ one of the ones that I want."

"She certainly isn't one of the ones _I_ want." Voldemort's voice wasn't as soft now. It was getting deeper. More impatient. That was better.

"I know..."

"Why on earth would she be one of the ones _you_ want?"

Harry sighed. He did _not_ want to confess the private fear he'd been harboring for months to _Voldemort_, of all people. Oh well. It wasn't as though Voldemort couldn't read his mind anyway. "Because she might be the only one I ever _get_ at the rate that everyone I care about is fleeing this god-forsaken country."

Voldemort laughed.

"What?" Harry snapped at him. "What about the fact that I'm being completely _abandoned_ by everyone I care about strikes you as funny?"

Voldemort grinned. "The part where I have _horrible_ taste in lovers. You see Harry, I'm afraid of being assassinated, of being usurped and losing everything, of my followers learning of certain unpleasant secrets and revolting, and of things of that nature. You, Amata, are afraid of never finding true love."

"Who's Amata?" Harry didn't particularly mind the ribbing. To him, _Voldemort's_ fears sounded shallow.

Voldemort sighed, but his grin stayed in place. "Oh Harry, if you're going to have _anyone's_ child you _must_ learn your fairytales." He shook his head. "As for everyone abandoning you, get used to it. The overwhelming majority of the world's population will do that if you let them."

"I know," Harry felt himself say, and he honestly didn't know if he meant 'I know you think that,' or simply 'I know.'

Voldemort sobered up a bit and returned to the matter at hand, "There are lots of nice girls still in this country, Harry. Even ones that _you'd_ consider nice. You're twenty years old. You've got lots of time left to find one. All having a child is going to do is make it even _harder_ for you to find one of them. And if you can't find one anyway, you can always adopt. We've got plenty of orphans to go around these days."

Harry was quiet. He leaned against the wall, sideways this time, and stared at Voldemort in silence.

"Harry..." Voldemort said softly, but now he sounded _frightened_, not condescending or impatient. "Please don't do this to me."

Harry actually felt his eyes get wider. _Voldemort_ had just said _please_.

Harry had almost decided. There was just one more thing.

"Voldemort?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"I love you."

"Then you're an idiot, and twice the one for telling me."

"I thought you'd say that." Harry said. He didn't really love Voldemort, of course. He'd just needed that last bit of confirmation. "Yeah, let's get rid of it." Voldemort turned and led Harry out of the room. He did _not_ grab Harry this time. "You're not going to drag me outside and send a painful curse up my arse, are you?"

Voldemort sighed. "_No_, Harry. I'm going to take you to Severus. _He's_ going to send an interesting-tasting potion down your throat."

"And then what?"

"Ever had detention with Severus?"

"Yes...?"

"And did he make you clean anything? The desks, the cauldrons—"

"Yes...?"

"It's going to be a bit like that, only this time the mess will be your own, and Severus is going to be a lot more annoyed."

"Oh."

"It's a lot less painful than giving birth, and a little less disgusting."

"I would hope so." Harry smirked despite himself. "Voldemort?"

"Yes?"

"You're not going to stay with me, are you?"

"There's no need. Severus knows what he's doing." Voldemort rolled his eyes. "I'll see you in two weeks at our next check-up, Harry. And you might ask Severus to make you some contraceptives for that."

"I don't recall saying that I ever want to have sex with you again."

"You'll say it in two weeks. You're not very good at resisting me, Harry."


End file.
